


faire bande à part

by wallanderp



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Art Gallery AU, Cosette Has A Twin Sister, Enjolras Works In An Art Gallery, Eponine Is A Curator, Grantaire is an artist, M/M, Modern AU, or art guide or something, what else can i say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:07:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4353698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallanderp/pseuds/wallanderp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No, what Enjolras found really interesting about his work in the gallery asides from the people he worked with was the one painting and the one mysterious person who comes by every day without missing a beat, and who leaves just as he came: silent, alone, and solitary.<br/>To most, this person must possess a kind of air that was invisibility to them, but mysteriousness to Enjolras. Eponine noticed him too. She had befriended the man about a month ago, and refused to share any information to Enjolras, asides from the fact that he was called “R”, like the letter, and was an artist himself. If Eponine liked him, the person must be very interesting indeed, Enjolras thought.<br/>The man would usually come late, almost minutes before closing time, and he would look upon time and time again at the one painting that Enjolras found most profound.</p><p>or MODERN AU where Enjolras works in an art gallery with Eponine and Feuilly, and R is a mysterious customer who keeps coming back to look at Enjolras' favorite painting for some reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) I'm 3 months in my 4 month summer break and I was bored to death so I just made this and now I'm posting it regardless of it being complete shit  
> 2.) This is my first ~fanfic~, so sorry for any non-fanfic-y tropes I have suddenly put in there  
> 3.) English isn't my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes in the spelling or grammar.  
> 4.) The title "faire bande à part" is French, which means to "to do something apart from the group."  
> 5.) Please leave a comment if you would like to see more!

Enjolras, who was indifferent towards art, had to admit that art sometimes did something to its gazers, something he would only ever chance upon when he says things in his speeches that made people’s eyes shine brighter. He would say some things and it would hit home.

There’s that look, he thought, that meant that that person was under your spell because they knew what you were talking about and they understood. It was a gratifying kind of look on a face. While he knew the look well and was heavily acquainted with it, he would only ever see it on a few. A few in the art gallery that his uncle Val Jean owned and he worked part time in. Him, being who he was, was incapable of staying as an employee for long in any company or establishment without exploiting it for its corrupt and oftentimes wicked blunders that operated beneath the surface of its perfectly cut-clean publicity. 

So his uncle who seemed like the only person in the family who was compassionate towards his convictions took pity on him and took him under his metaphorical wing.  
Enjolras sighed. He was currently manning “the desk”, waiting for anyone who had any questions about the gallery (not about art, god forbid, he knew nothing about it) to approach him. He had a very blasé attitude towards art, and towards the people who more often than not asked him questions about the gallery. The thing about art, Enjolras decided, was that it was a kind of passion for the people who came there, sometimes. The art gallery was small enough and hidden in a secluded spot to not warrant any kind of unwanted art-enthusiasts who weren’t really enthusiastic towards art, just towards what liking the medium would make them seem like. The “cultured lot”, as some of his co-workers would call them (but he knew it was a bunch of bullshit), who really appreciated it would come into the gallery, and even then, only a few would have the look. 

Art, to Enjolras, was something that he knew was exerted tremendous amounts of effort, work and time in. It was beautiful, he knew that, but he never really understood it. He liked the people who did though, and he had friends who were artists as well. He settled on indifference, seeing as he never had any opinions about it.

The pay was okay and the efforts he was required to exert were far from strenuous, and for most of the time when Combeferre would ask him why he still stayed in the gallery, he would simply reply that it was because he got too comfortable. 

Courf would tease that about him, saying that he never got too comfortable anywhere. Enjolras would frown at him and dismiss him and his childish antics, but he wasn’t really serious because everyone loved Courf and his teasing. It was what made him him. 

And yet it wasn’t too far from the truth. He really did get too comfortable; he had been there for almost a year and a half. He had made friends with the janitor, Feuilly, who usually came in and maintained the art gallery, and the curator, Eponine, who was about the same age as him, surprisingly. 

Eponine was a peculiar petite waifish girl, who had badly cut hair that she usually tied up in a clean bun whenever she started curating. She would often wear black clothes because she had said that those were her only “formal-looking ones”. She said she was a bar tender when she wasn’t curating. She stopped going to University when she realized how impractical and snooty college attitude was, thinking that they knew everything about the world just because they were on their last stages of education. 

Enjolras would reply in a frown that education wasn’t something that could be finished, and she would bark back that it wasn’t, but people thought so. Then he would ask her about whom “they” were, and she said that “they” were all of the people in the college system. Eponine had taken one look at him when he came in his first day and decided that she was going to make his life miserable by making him her friend. And yet Enjolras enjoyed her company. She was snarky and bitter and oftentimes hard, but that was what made her so likeable. She wasn’t into bullshit and she acted like she was very, very sure of herself. Questioning her about her actions would lead to regrettable consequences. 

Feuilly, on the other hand, was a little older than them, but not by much. They rarely chanced upon the ginger because of the time of his shift, but what little he does share is that this was also a part time job for him; his other job was as a tutor for children, mostly toddlers. He currently stopped studying at University to take on two jobs to save up for tution. He also happens to have 3 cats, or so it goes. Feuilly was extremely sweet and easily approachable, something which Enjolras really appreciated in a person.

No, what Enjolras found really interesting about his work in the gallery asides from the people he worked with was the one painting and the one mysterious person who comes by every day without missing a beat, and who leaves just as he came: silent, alone, and solitary.  
To most, this person must possess a kind of air that was invisibility to them, but mysteriousness to Enjolras. Eponine noticed him too. She had befriended the man about a month ago, and refused to share any information to Enjolras, asides from the fact that he was called “R”, like the letter, and he was an artist himself. If Eponine liked him, the person must be very interesting indeed, Enjolras thought.  
The man would usually come late, almost minutes before closing time, and he would look upon time and time again at the one painting that Enjolras found most profound. He didn’t like art, but he could almost see the appeal in this one painting. It was called “penance”. Enjolras cannot describe the painting to anyone. You had to see it for yourself. R would look at Penance for a long time, until it was closing time and everyone was leaving the gallery. 

A girl with a coat that looked like it belonged to the 70s and shaggy hair came up to him and asked him about the gallery, who owned it and whose idea it was to be set up in that deep into the suburbs. 

Enjolras relayed the information with a crystal clear voice. The art gallery was owned by a man whose past child had loved art, and had passed away with cancer years before. She made her promise her father to maintain an old gallery almost falling apart before she had died, and this was it. The girl was moved by this story, based on the look on her face. While she was cooing, Enjolras saw R entering the gallery. It was raining heavily outside, so he took off his wet coat and put it on the coat rack. He glanced at Enjolras. Enjolras stared at him. R had very large, very blue eyes. His eyes were both disenchanted and unemotional. The man was inscrutable. Then he looked away. He lingered around some of the paintings for a while, before he went to “Penance”. He was the only one in the gallery looking at it.

The girl coughed and Enjolras turned to her again. She had asked what his favourite painting was. 

“I’m not really into art, I just work here.” 

The girl grinned. “But you must find something in here exemplary?” 

Enjolras frowned. “I like that one,” he pointed at an abstract painting. “I like how you can look at it and see a face.” 

“A face!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” he replied. 

The girl cooed again. She pointed to “Penance”. “I love that one,” she said. 

“That one?”

“Yes. It’s called Penance.”

“Why do you like that one?” He asked with genuine interest.

“I like how you can look at it and it doesn’t punish you.”

Enjolras hummed, as if in thought. The girl asked Enjolras if it was for sale.

“Every painting here is for sale,” he said, “except for ‘Penance’.” 

“Why not that one?” 

“The owner’s daughter painted that one.” 

The girl’s eyes beamed. “Oh,” she said. 

The clock ticked 9:00 PM, which was closing time. He pointed at it to the girl with an apologetic smile, and she smiled back at him. “Thank you,” she replied with a sort of curtsy. It was strange but he found it fond. 

R was heading for the coat rack. There were only a few more people left in the gallery, and Eponine passed him by to go into the staff room. She clapped him on the shoulder and murmured “nice work”, and disappeared. Feuilly was already mopping the floor, whistling what seemed like the tune of ‘Baby You’re A Rich Man’ by The Beatles. 

R shook his coat to get rid of the remaining rainfall. He looked at Enjolras who was preoccupied with fixing the things behind the desk. 

“She looked like she liked Penance,” he said. “You told her it wasn’t for sale?”  
Enjolras lifted his gaze towards him, and scrutinized the man. He was already putting on his coat, and was looking at Enjolras with an amused expression. 

“I did. How did you know it wasn’t for sale?” 

“It’s the only good painting here, and it never goes anywhere. I figured as much.” 

“Oh,” Enjolras bowed his head again. 

“For fuck’s sake,” R almost whined. “I’m not one of your snobbish art fans, okay? When I said “the only good painting”, I meant it’s the only one that has soul.”  
Enjolras looked at him again and frowned. “I don’t know anything about art, so I don’t have any right to say what merits a good painting and which doesn’t. Although isn’t it kind of disrespectful to say that none of the any others have “soul”? I think the artists worked hard enough on their paintings to make them have one.” 

R was smiling devilishly. “Are you a lawyer?” 

“No, but I’m taking up a pre-law.”

“I thought so. You’re one of those snobby Ivy League college kids? You’ve got the look.” 

“What and you aren’t? A snobby artist who thinks he can decide what has soul and what doesn’t? You’ve got the look.” 

R laughed. “Touché,” he said, “it was nice talking to you, Blondie.” And then he left.  
Enjolras frowned further with dismay and an almost-disappointment at the turn of their first interaction. “Fucking hell,” he said. Eponine emerged from the staff room with her badly-cut hair free and almost curling. 

“Who’s that?” She asked. She had on a Pink Floyd shirt and tasteless pants which were torn at the knees for aesthetics. 

“Our favourite customer,” he said lowly with sarcasm. 

“Ah,” Eponine merely replied. “Wanna come over my apartment? Gav needs help with his history homework.” 

“Let me get my bag.” Enjolras went into the staff room while Eponine told Feuilly to make sure he doesn’t forget to close up, even though he never does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are lovely! Thank you for the comments, I'm anxious about answering/accepting compliments, I don't know.

“So what were you and R talking about earlier?” Eponine asked. They were currently in her apartment watching Three Colors: Red, sitting on her ratty couch with her little brother Gav. Enjolras was doing Gav’s history homework as he half-paid attention to the movie.

“Nothing.”

 “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. What were you guys talking about? You sounded angry.”

“He’s always angry,” Gav said nonchalantly.

“You know, I _am_ doing your homework.”

Gav reached out for his homework, but Enjolras simply rolled his eyes at him. “We were talking about Penance.”

Eponine sat up in her seat, which always meant trouble for anyone who she was interrogating. “Well _THAT_ sounds interesting! Why didn’t you just say?”

“Because it was a really stupid conversation. He figured out that it wasn’t for sale, and then he said something about it being the only painting there that had “soul”, whatever the fuck that was, and I got angry. That’s all.”

Eponine rolled her eyes and made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t tell me you got offended again.”

“What he said was disrespectful to the other artists.”

“R must have been just bullshitting you, that’s all. He does that sometimes.”

“How would you know? You barely know the man.”

Eponine frowned at him. “I know him more than you do. I actually talk to him, as opposed to just staring at him ominously from across the room.”

“Fuck all that. What he said was still disrespectful.”

Eponine made a groaning noise as she folded herself into the couch, while Gay laughed at the ridiculousness of the two supposed adults in the room.

“Wait,” Enjolras said, “does he do that to you? Bullshit you?”

“Ugggghhhhh,” Eponine groaned. She got up from her seat and snatched Gav’s homework from his hands. She started hauling him to the door as Enjolras made out farewells and sleep-wells to Gav, who was trying to offer farewells and sleep-wells also.

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Enjolras exclaimed as Eponine slammed the door on his face. He smiled to himself, and set on home.

 

#

 

Enjolras had tried living with other people before; once when he was a freshman when he tried to occupy a dormitory with one of his best friends, Combeferre. Courfeyrac, his other best friend, simply laughed at him when he proposed living with Combeferre and him. Needless to say, living together ended badly for them.

They had been roommates for exactly a week when Enjolras decided that 7 days was enough for him. He moved out and since then he had lived alone. He liked the solitude and the privacy. Combeferre understood him, understood him better than other people, in fact, so it was all good. There were no hard feelings. He knew that it wasn’t him; it was just that Enjolras was incapable of living with anyone else. If Enjolras couldn’t live with him, he can’t live with anyone else.

Eponine’s apartment was on the other side of town – he walked a distance from her place to the nearest train station. Enjolras didn’t particularly have anything against taking the train; it’s just that the things he associated with it were horribly abhorrent to him. Taking the train always reminded him of running late to his shift in the art gallery since the gallery was out of the way for him, with where he was from. He lived in an apartment near the vicinity of his University. He always hated public transportation, but he understood the importance in it. He was in favour of its concept since it would help reduce air pollution from various vehicles that emitted harmful gases into the earth’s atmosphere. He liked the concept, but he never liked the real thing. It was a testimony to most of the things in his life. It was one of the reasons he was so good at Philosophy.

When he got home to his apartment he made a cup of tea, read a few pages of _Homage to Catalonia_ , and reluctantly went to bed. He saw peacefulness in living alone, with no one being able to tell you when to sleep, or when not to just yet.

 

#

 

A great surprise greeted him at the entrance of the art gallery as R, the mysterious artist Enjolras had gotten into an argument with about _soul_ , was found waiting for him there.

They had locked eyes as Enjolras first glanced at him and found the man looking right back.

Enjolras tried to smile, unsure about what one must usually do during these kinds of awkward situations.

“Hello,” R said. He was smiling sincerely this time; not his usual, since whenever he did before it was to mock.

“Um, hi,” Enjolras replied, rather hesitant, as he entered into the gallery. When he glanced back, he could see R following him inside. “I can see you’re quite early,” he said.

“What? Oh. Yes. Well I wanted to surprise you.”

Enjolras stopped behind the desk. “Surprise?” He asked. He hadn't even put his coat or bag down yet. 

“Yes. Well, I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I wanted to ask you if you liked poetry.”

Enjolras stared at him. “No,” he finally got out of his mouth. “Like I said before, I’m not into art, I just work here.”

“I wasn’t asking about art. I was asking about poetry. You don’t like it?”

Enjolras paused to think. “Not really, I just don’t care for it. I never understood it. I make speeches, though.”

“Speeches?” R asked with an incredulous expression on his face.

“I’m a member and a leader of a political group in my University. I often make speeches when there are rallies or conferences or meetings. In answer to your question, I don’t really know much poetry, but I do know the power of words. Or so it goes.”

 R beamed at him. “That’s great because I wanted to ask you to come to this poetry slam with me to watch my friend who’s performing. She’s a great poet. She’s really incredible. I think you would like it.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Whatever for?” He accidentally let out.

“I told you. We got off on the wrong foot.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“I thought Eponine told you? Well, she told me yours. It's Enjolras, right? How do you even spell that shit. Anyway, my name's R.”

Enjolras raised one of his eyebrows and mustered his best unimpressed look. “Just one letter?”

“Yes, my parents were terrible.”

Enjolras thought about this mysterious person’s proposition. “What’s your real name? I’ll go if you tell me.”

R rolled his eyes. “ _Grantaire_ , yeah, yeah, like Grand R. Laugh it all up. Okay, so Friday, 9 PM sharp. The venue is at the Musain. Ask Eponine where it is, she knows. Also if she wants to come too, she’s invited.”

“Okay. Friday night it is, then.”

With that, R did an astonishing thing: he did the same curtsy that the girl with the 70’s coat and the shaggy hair did yesterday. He looked ridiculous imitating her. Then he went straight to Penance. There were a lot of people in the gallery. Enjolras breathed, and then went into the staff room.


	3. Chapter 3

 Enjolras and Eponine met R at the Musain where the poetry slam was held – the place was already packed with people when they got there. They ventured deeper into the crowds of what seemed like  _all kinds_  of humans. The audience all seemed extremely different from one another – it was like different parties with different swarms people attending just packed into one venue. Maybe that was the case. There were people who looked just the same age as Enjolras and Eponine, then there were others who were younger, and yet others who look older than Feuilly himself.

“Oh, there he is,” Eponine almost exclaimed with relief as she pointed somewhere to the left. “R!”

Funnily enough, Grantaire emerged from one of the most crowded tables and met them with a blinding grin. It was the first time Enjolras ever saw him smile like this. “You guys came!” the artist cried with what could only be described as genuine joy.

“Of course we did, idiot,” Eponine teased affectionately as she approached R and kissed his cheek in warm greeting. “I brought Mr. Grumpy and Unartistic here with me.”

R turned to look at Enjolras with his usual mischievous smile; like he’s plotting something the latter has no idea about which will more or less bring forth his eventual ruin. “Enjolras,” R said to him in greeting, and it was that easy.

Enjolras nodded to him in acknowledgement. “Great crowd,” he commented.

R rolled his eyes and beckoned them unto another table – smaller this time, meant for only 4 occupants.

“My friend is performing last, the ‘main event.’ Her name is Jehan.”

“I  _cannot_ wait to see her perform at last,” Eponine remarked, seemingly genuinely happy with this news. Enjolras did not know how to react because he didn’t know who Jehan was.

They sat down. “You guys want any drinks?” R asked.

He’s never been to an event like this before, so he has no idea what to order. He half-expected Eponine to do an outrageous stunt like order vodka or plain-old beer, but she doesn’t.

“I’ll have tea,” she said.

“Coffee, then,” Enjolras settled.

“Alright.”

When R left their table for the counter slash bar, Eponine dropped her head down unto Enjolras’s shoulder and buried her face into the fabric of his sleeve. She was shaking, and it took him a while before he figured out that she was silently laughing.

 “What’s wrong?” Enjolras asked.

“You. Why are you so tense? You look like you’re expecting him to eat you alive any moment now. Not that R wouldn’t, mind you.”

“He’s probably plotting it right now.”

“Don’t be so scared of him. He may seem dark and broody... and, well... honestly when you get to know him it just kind of intensifies, plus you encounter the inescapable sarcasm, but he’s a good kid. I think you guys will like each other – despite-”

Enjolras interrupted her then, with a remark about how Eponine wasn’t even any older than they were, and they left it at that. R came back with their orders and made small talk mostly to Eponine about the poetry slam and the people who were there.

It seemed like Eponine and R knew a lot more about each other than they initially let on; they talked about people who Enjolras had never heard of before. He even caught implications of them knowing three people in a polygamous relationship. Mostly, they talked about a Montparnasse and how he was treating Eponine nowadays.

“He’s improving,” Eponine said lamely as she took a sip of her tea.

“Really?”

“He stays away from the apartment, which is good, and he listens to me now. Well, I know for a fact people don’t really change, but I don’t know, R. I want to think he  _is_ changing... or something along those lines, anyway.”

Enjolras suddenly got the feeling that he was listening to a conversation he wasn’t meant to hear, so he decided to look out at the crowd instead and let R and Eponine catch up on their own.

From what small snippets of information he caught though, in their hushed conversation, was that Montparnasse was most probably an ex-boyfriend of Eponine’s who fucked up badly. Enjolras was not aware of Eponine having had partners before – he suspected she did, but never found the courage to ask. He always thought that she would talk to him about that on her own.

The conversation then trickled down and slowly spiralled back to the current event; the poetry slam was held every year, and existed for raising charity. They send what little they do earn to various non-profit organizations. Apparently, R was close friends with one of the organizers of the slam, someone named Bossuet (who also seemed like one of the three people who were in the polygamous relationship), and with  _Jehan,_ a regular performer. Most of the other people here were more or less his friends or acquaintances, or acquaintances of his friends, or acquaintances of his acquaintances. Enjolras felt like he was the only person in the cafe who was ultimately out of place.

The people were all bundled in groups – some in large tables, some in even smaller ones than theirs. By the looks of it, they were all having a nice time so far. There was not one individual he could see that wasn’t in a conversation or an argument.

“So why is Blondie not saying anything?” R asked loudly – making sure he was heard – with an amused tone.

Enjolras turned his full attention back to them. “I don’t know any of these people.”

“That’s alright, you know. We can introduce you to some of them, get you acquainted.”

“That’d be great,” Eponine butt in. “It could increase Enjolras’s social capital. He’s all about that kind of thing.”

R sat up properly. “Oh yeah, I remember. You run a political group, right?”

“That’s the simplest way of saying that, maybe,” Eponine remarked, and received a scowl in return from the blonde. She merely laughed and brushed him off with an affectionate dismissive gesture, which probably meant something along the lines of _“you know what I’m talking about.”_

“I run  _Les Amis_ , a political group that intends to raise awareness towards the world’s various social, political and economic issues. Income inequality, poverty, government corruption – just about everything we could help raise awareness and contribute even the smallest solutions to. We hold meetings every Friday at 7 PM on the campus. You could come, R.”

Eponine laughed at the blatant invitation but Enjolras paid her no mind, and neither did R. The artist stared at him with a not-so there smile, almost like he’s challenging Enjolras into a staring contest. “I could,” he finally replied.

“You could meet some of the most amazing people in the world too,” Enjolras said, sitting up properly now, like this signalled the start of the real conversation, “Some of the people who are in the group are among my closest friends as well.”

“Does Eponine happen to be in Les Amis?”

“I don’t dig that sort of thing unfortunately,” Eponine explained as she lit a cigarette. “I prefer to fight my  _own battles,_ with my own time.” She winked at Enjolras as he frowned at her.

“I could come to the meetings if I believed in that sort of thing.”

An awkward silence enveloped the small table as Enjolras and Eponine stared at R, both with different expressions on their faces. Eponine now had a look that seemed to say “seriously?” while Enjolras was just confused.

“What do you mean?” He finally voiced his confusion.

“I mean, I would go to the meetings if I believed in any of the things you guys wanted to achieve.” He started to light a cigarette.

“You don’t think we can help better mankind for the future?”

“What future? To be honest, with the rate we’re going, I don’t think humanity’s going to last much long. And those things you said, the issues, well; they’re all manifestations of Human Nature. Extreme greed, the need for justifying those actions – whatever. There’s no point. As long as there are humans, those things are here to stay.”

“What? You can’t possibly believe that.”

Eponine laughed nervously. “This seems like hardly poetry slam conversation,” she said rather uneasily.

“That’s the first time I ever heard you say anything with that kind of tone, Ep,” Enjolras snapped at her with mild irritation.

“Maybe it’s because I don’t like it when you get mad, and,” she turned to R with a look that could probably kill him stone dead,”-I don’t know how to stop R when he’s on a roll. Come on guys,  _be easy_.”

R let out a seemingly annoyed scoff and turned to look out at the crowd.

“You seem like an extremely cynical person,” Enjolras said to the artist, not waiting for him to make eye contact. “I don’t think you’re wrong, in fact – you’re far from wrong. But it’s all just a matter of perspective. Of course, we can’t destroy  _all_  those issues, it’s impossible. Not in our lifetimes. But we can try to lessen it; we can try to strive for the better. We shouldn’t just settle for these inequalities to go on further, not without our say. This is the only thing we really have, so we should try to save it with what we can, with what’s within our power. We owe that to the world.”

When R turned to look at him, Enjolras was surprised with the expression on his face. It was the same inscrutable look he had when he was looking at  _Penance._

Before any of them could say anything any further, a voice boomed through the cafe and announced the start of the event.

During the small breaks in between performances, Enjolras would look at his companion’s faces; while Eponine looked like she was surprisingly enjoying herself and clapping along with the rest of the crowd, R looked like he was extremely preoccupied. He was staring at the stage with a blank look on his face. He was mostly silent.

One time, Enjolras caught the other man looking at him with a look on his face that Enjolras could only describe as  _longing._  He was mildly unsettled, because he would only ever see that on Courfeyrac’s face when both him and Combeferre would share one of those strange moments where there were instances of the most treasured intimacy; Ferre fixing Courf’s unkempt hoody, Ferre ordering Courf’s coffee because he has already memorized the latter’s usual order. Them both, laughing at their own inside jokes, and knowing just about every little quirk about each other. Of course, it extended to Enjolras, but with just the two of them, sometimes the dynamic was a tad different.

Enjolras mouthed a “what?” when he caught R staring at him, and because of the crowd’s overly-enthusiastic clapping and hollering, if he spoke not much would be understood. R blinked, and finally smiled. He shook his head no. And the moment was gone.

The last performer, whose performance was also the ‘main event’, as R said earlier, was what Enjolras would have thought what a fairy would look like if they ever existed in the world. She was one of the most peculiar-looking people Enjolras had ever seen. It did, in fact, occur to him that  _she_ was in fact a  _he_ biologically _,_ but it suddenly kicked into his brain that she must prefer being called with feminine pronouns, so he made a mental note to follow R’s friend’s personal preferences.

The MC introduced her as Jehan Prouvaire, and  _could you please give her a warm round of applause._ The crowd was by this time high from the company of friends and the effects of the poetry previously recited, and/or alcoholic beverages previously consumed. They gave a booming round of applause, even though Jehan hasn’t even started yet.

Jehan stepped up unto the small stage and approached the microphone in the middle with small, gentle gestures. “Um—hello. My name’s Jehan, and I’m here to recite a poem of mine. It’s called  _On Believing, Living, and Dying._ ”

Jehan must have been around 5 foot 1 or 2, and had rather long, wavy dark blonde hair. Enjolras could tell this despite of her braid because of some of the stray hair floating around her face. At the tips of her hair, though, were splatters of different colours, like they were dyed on top of one another, and failed to really cover the previous pigment. She had flowers everywhere – in her hair, behind her ear, and some were even sewn on her already floral clothes. Enjolras wasn’t one to be overly-enthusiastic about the aesthetics of dressing or clothing one’s self, but he could tell that Jehan was horribly dressed – she had on a lumpy hot pink sweater, a (something Courf would call) tacky poncho that was obviously too big for her, and a flow-y skirt, which looked like one of those kinds of articles of clothing that hippies from the 60’s wore. In fact, for some reason, he could remember seeing a picture of Stevie Nicks wearing one that looked _exactly_ like it. Her eyelids were covered with what Enjolras supposed was lavender eye shadow and glitter. She was also curiously barefoot.

Her speaking voice, which he guessed was her normal one too, was small and almost frail. He noted that she also had a lisp, which he found maddeningly charming. When she started to recite her poem, though, it was almost as if it was a different person was on stage. Enjolras wanted to ask R if he had helped her practice reciting her piece days or even weeks before, because it was impossible to really do _that_ without practicing with an audience. He noted that as the poem progressed and the tension rose with it, a lot of the people in the crowd had that  _look._  The look people would have when someone says something and it would hit home; the look of  _completely relating_. Jehan must know the power she has over the crowd because she takes her time and paces her performance well. She pauses at the right cues and has great diction despite the soft, airy voice and lisp.

“The price of living through the age of innocence // of dreaming and of believing // is disbelieving in life. Yet what is the point in cynicism? In nihilism // when there are _people_ who are not worth being abandoned // most of all: neglected.”

 After her last lines, the crowd immediately rose to their feet and clapped with much more fervour, if that were even possible. Jehan took a bow, and went down the stage. The MC replaced her on the spotlight and was starting to tell funny anecdotes about poems and famous ages-old dead poets.

“You never told me Jehan was  _that_ good,” Eponine said to R with a smile on her face. R was grinning now too; in fact, all of them were in high spirits with the incredibility of Jehan’s expertise on just how to steal poetry slams.

“Jehan!” R yelled at the poet as she took her drink from the coffee slash bar. He whistled to get her attention. The poet looked around for a moment, baffled by either the identity of her caller, or where R’s voice was coming from. She finally spotted them, and headed in a beeline towards their table.

“R! Was I okay?” she asked as she kissed R’s cheek with a smack. She put her drink – a caramel macchiato, by the looks of it – down on the table. She sat down next to Enjolras.

“Okay? Is that the best adjective you can come up with?”

“You were incredible,” Eponine said. Jehan also greeted her and kissed her cheek with a loud smack as well, heightened to probably show intense affection. Enjolras, who was clueless about how the people in the table all knew each other, was looking at them expectantly.

Jehan finally turned to look at him, and seemed like she was taken aback. “Oh, WOW.  And you must be R and Ep’s friend?”

R chuckled while Eponine tried her best to stifle her laughter with the back of her right hand. “Jehan, this is Enjolras. Enjolras, Jehan,” Grantaire said.

“Nice to meet you,” Enjolras greeted her as he shook her hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. Wow, you’re like. Um. I know this is probably impolite, but—oh wow. Do you even know how you look like?”

Enjolras let out a nervous laugh as R rolled his eyes, while Eponine finally lost her last shred of self-control and started laughing out loud without restraint this time.

“What?” Jehan asked her with an accusatory tone of voice, but was laughing lightly as well. “He looks like fucking  _David_  by motherfucking Michelangelo, excuse the language.”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras replied.

“So, tell me about yourself,” Jehan said, but not without a tinge of shyness. “Not that I haven’t been hearing tons of stories from these two already.”

Enjolras gaped in slight horror. “What stories?”  

“Well, most of the things I know, I’ve heard from R, and it’s not really that reliable because most of it consists of someone looking at him angrily across an art gallery...”

By the conclusion of the night, Jehan had already ended up being one of Enjolras’ favourite people. He had never met anyone before who was shy and disarming, eloquent, knowledgeable (without being snobbish), and  _tender._ At times during his conversation with her he was reminded of Feuilly and his sweetness, and Combeferre and his love for poetry, which was not at all as extensive as Jehan’s. Meeting the poet also, in a way, widened Enjolras’ perception of Grantaire as a person. He saw how they interacted throughout the occasion; even apart from each other, Enjolras felt like he was dwarfed by their connectedness and the awareness that they were comfortable enough with each other from years of knowing one another. They gave off the air that they knew each other more than they knew themselves.

“Are you and R...?” Enjolras asked Jehan at one point, quietly while the artist and Eponine were talking passionately about the significance of Tim Drake both as an individual character in the DC Universe and as Robin.

Jehan looked at him with a confused expression and wide eyes. “Me and R...?”

“Are you togeth-“

“NO! Goodness gracious,” she laughed with relief; “me and R are best friends.”

“Oh,” Enjolras replied, more confused at the sudden sense of consolation that he felt. Why did he feel relief himself at that piece of information? He asked himself this question and failed to receive an answer.

Apparently, Jehan had first met R at a bookstore when they both fought over the last copy of  _Ariel_ by Sylvia Plath, a required reading from one of their classes, which they weren’t aware they had in fact shared at University. R was obviously older than Enjolras and Eponine – Jehan as well, and the poet confirmed this also. R shared that he was about 3 years older than all of them.

“Are you still in University, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked him.

“No,” R replied as he exhaled cigarette smoke, “I actually just tried it for one year, you know, ‘cause I wanted to find out why everyone was doing it.”

Enjolras frowned at this peculiar answer. “What did you take up?”

“Fine Arts.”

“You didn’t finish your degree?”

R paused, like he was deep in thought. “Wasn’t worth it,” he finally replied.

That was the breadth of their interactions that night; when Grantaire approached Enjolras the other day at the gallery the latter had formed the impression that the former would exert efforts of starting conversations, since the artist was still fairly mysterious to Enjolras. In fact, they were probably mysterious to each other. They did not know much about one another, except for what their mutual friends have graciously shared. And although Enjolras had now known a few new things about him, he still didn’t know much. He had thought of asking Jehan about R, but decided it better not to.

When the MC had said  _thank you_ s and farewells to the crowd, and the people all went their separate ways, either to their beds or after parties, Jehan leaned in close to Enjolras as they stood up from their seats and muttered about when they could do this again.

“R really seems to like you,” he whispered.

Enjolras stared at her. “What gave you that impression?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Let’s do this again,” she replied instead.

“Yes, let’s,” R agreed.”Okay so I’m heading over to Ep’s apartment, what about you guys?”

Jehan grinned at him and told him that he would be heading home due to his various commitments in the early morning, and that he had better get his sleep.

Enjolras, for the first time in his adult life, had no idea about what he wanted to do. He contemplated about phoning Combeferre or Courfeyrac, or both of them. He felt like he had an immense urge to talk to someone and ask them for advice. Advice for what, he did not even know.

“I’d better head off home too,” he settled on saying.

R looked at him with his blank expression, his big blue eyes searching the blonde’s face. Then he blinked, sighed, and said “okay, if you say so, Apollo,” like he was disappointed at their parting. He cracked a small smile, and held out his hand. As Enjolras grabbed and shook it – his grasp firm and warm – R suddenly quoted: “’If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”


	4. Chapter 4

Come Saturday morning, Enjolras found himself in a cafe having scrambled eggs and French toast with a haggard-looking Combeferre, who just stared at his food for 5 minutes straight without moving.

They had agreed to meet up and have breakfast early in the morning before they started doing any of the things they usually do on a Saturday – which to Enjolras, was merely studying and doing projects or doing other various trivial things one had to do when one lives alone (see: chores). Sometimes he did the laundry. Most of the time he goes over to Combeferre’s dormitory to study with him, and to merely bask in his best friend’s much wanted presence. Being with him made Enjolras calm and collected, made him think of the situation first before coming to unwarranted conclusions.

Combeferre was a pre-med student while Enjolras was pre-law, which meant that neither of them were often spared free time for themselves, not to mention that it was they who regularly arranged and foresaw any Les Amis events or projects. They had met when they were young, along with Courfeyrac, and Enjolras didn’t really want to describe it as an instant click because it wasn’t, well not at least for Courf, but in a way there was this feeling that they knew where their relationship was going to lead to. To Courf – whose personality was all the love and enthusiasm for living in the moment and having a constant laugh at life, nothing else much mattered – it was an unwanted but ultimately necessary and inevitable marriage with the two biggest _nerds_ he knew, and it was with moth-enthusiast _Ferre and Bolshevik-wannabe Enjy_. Their personalities were a bit different but it worked because they all seemed to reflect the different sides of those said personalities to each other. There was chemistry. Enjolras was extremely thankful for having them both.

Enjolras coughed. Combeferre did not stir. He did not seem to have heard the other man, or any of the other sounds surrounding him.

“Ferre?” Enjolras asked.

“Mhmm?”

“Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not eating. You’re just staring at your food. Plus you look like hell.”

The bespectacled man finally looked at Enjolras with a sigh. His eyes were red-rimmed and he had forgotten to shave that morning. He looked considerably older in this state.

“What’s wrong?!”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. What happened to you?”

“Nothing happened,” Combeferre replied with a slightly-annoyed air. “I’ll go eat my breakfast now so you can stop asking me what just happened.”

“Oh my god,” Enjolras said as he reached for his phone and called Courfeyrac.

“If you’re trying to call Courfeyrac, he’s not going to answer you, I’m afraid. We had a horrible argument last night. I think he’s still upset about it.”

“Wait,” Enjolras cancelled the call. “A _serious_ argument? Because whenever you two fight it’s always about things like whether Star Trek or Star Wars was better, and it’s usually you who’s-“

“Well, if you really want to know, I was supposed to surprise him last night so I went to his apartment, but then I caught him with a malicious-looking person. After the man left, I told him he’d better not because the person looked like a scoundrel, even if I don’t really approve of  judging people by their appearance, the man gave off a mischievous impression.

“Courfeyrac got angry and told me that-“ Combeferre sighed once more, and put a hand on his forehead as if he felt a nasty headache coming on, “-if I had done something about _this,_ _he_ wouldn’t even be there. If I did something about whatever _this_ is, the person who I disapproved of wouldn’t even be there, at his apartment. And he said it like—like, that person wouldn’t even _need_ to be with Courf, then. Like he was there for my own inconvenience.”

Enjolras felt a loss for words. Yes, Courfeyrac got mad, got impatient – got _sad_ , but it was very rare and it usually passed quickly. Courfeyrac was the epitome of ultimate optimism. He often relayed to people about why he chose optimism over pessimism, why he never got tired of hoping for the best despite being disappointed all of the time. He said that it would be such a waste of energy trying to think of things in a negative perspective all the time, because it was only _you_ who was being preoccupied by these thoughts. _The joke was on you._

This is what Enjolras loved about him, ultimately.  He refused to give up fighting back against every unfortunate thing in life. He always got back up on his feet no matter the bad news. While there was a will, there was a way, and so on.

So Courfeyrac acting this way didn’t make any bit of sense. Not to him, at least.

“What did he mean by that?” Combeferre asked – his voice cracked halfway.

 

#

 

Combeferre was standing outside of Courf’s apartment. He knocked on the door, bubbling with excitement. He had with him two tickets to see _Of Mice and Men_ that he was intending to give to Courf so they could see it _together_ , when the door opened and an unfamiliar face greeted him. His smile died, and was replaced by the after-effects of what someone would look like when they were blasted in the face with cold, cutting wind on the first day of winter. The kind of wind you don’t expect to greet you first thing in the morning on a Monday where everything was already falling apart before they even got the chance to form a resemblance of anything whole.

It was already night time, and the unfamiliar man smiled mockingly at Combeferre. “Can I help you?”

He was wearing a snapback and had a piercing on the right side of his nose. He also had a Lebron James jersey on. He was everything Combeferre wasn’t.

It wasn’t a secret that Courfeyrac slept with a lot of people. He slept with anyone he wanted to, and no one ever batted an eye against it. Combeferre never had a problem with it before, until now. Maybe it was because this was the first time that he ever saw any of Courf’s partners in his apartment, and the shock of it was turning him crazy. Or maybe it was because he thought that Courf stopped after what was happening between them lately. His excitement was slowly replaced by hurt, and then quickly by blinding anger he couldn’t see past. He was seeing red, and he suddenly developed an intense need to punch the guy in the face. He was thankful for trying to get there quickly, because he thought that if he was any slower he would have missed _this asshole._

“Who the fuck are you?” He spat out.

“Uh,” the asshole laughed, and put a hand through his hair. He titled his face and was _honest to god batting his eyelashes at him._ “Woops? Are you the boyfriend...?”

“Who is it?!” Combeferre heard Courfeyrac yell from within the apartment.

“Ummm, there’s someone here...”

Courfeyrac approached the guy and shoved him backwards and away from the doorway, in an attempt to sort out the commotion. His face which was filled initially with irritation suddenly fell and turned pale.

“Ferre,” he said weakly.

“What the fuck is going on?”

His face then twisted back into irritation, but was mixed with what Combeferre could only describe as indifference. Or maybe, resignation.

“I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing here?”

Combeferre was so shocked by his best friend’s attitude towards him that when he opened his mouth, no words came out. He couldn’t even articulate a proper reply.

“I—who the hell is this guy? What’s he doing here with you?”

Courfeyrac shook his head. He looked tired. He turned to the guy and murmured something. 5 minutes later Combeferre found himself inside the apartment alone with Courf; the stranger had headed off home.

“You better not—” Combeferre started, but failed to finish. “—you _didn’t._ ”

“If you did something – anything – about _this_ , he wouldn’t even be here,” Courfeyrac replied without a fight in him.

#

“It means he’s in love with Combeferre,” Grantaire said as he exhaled cigarette smoke. “And he’s tired of waiting for him to make the first move, and probably wary of being scared.”

“Scared?” Enjolras asked.

“Scared,” Grantaire repeated with affirmation.

After Enjolras and Combeferre’s tiring breakfast that morning, Enjolras went back to his apartment to do laundry and mull over what Combeferre had said. He told his best friend that he should come back to his apartment; he was planning of plying Ferre with hot cocoa and bagels to make him feel better, but the future doctor had other places to be. He did promise to come later, though.

When Enjolras got home he was surprised once more by seeing Grantaire – the same Grantaire he was with last night in the poetry slam – sitting on the steps of his apartment. He was drawing something on a small sketchpad. When Enjolras approached him, he offered no explanation whatsoever. He smiled at him, rather amused by the blonde’s baffled expression. He simply followed Enjolras up the stairs and into the apartment. When he got inside and the door was slowly shut closed, only then did he spoke. He reached into his bag and held out a small worn hardbound book to Enjolras.

“Eponine told me where you lived. Also, Jehan wanted to lend you this.” He took the book from the artist and scanned the cover. It had no title or author on its front cover; only a picture of a bird attempting to take flight, embossed with gold lines.

“She said you needed to read it.”

“What is it?”

“Look inside.”

Enjolras opened the book and surveyed the first page. _Property of Jehan Prouvaire_ , was written on it in narrow and curly penmanship, almost font-like. The date “ _01/31/2009 or January 31, 2009 – both in the past”_ was under it.

He flipped to the next page and finally saw the title.

“Oh,” were the only words that came out. “Tell Jehan thank you for me,” he said more firmly.

“Okay,” R replied. “Can I smoke in here?”

 

Enjolras offered Grantaire bagels and hot cocoa that was meant for a saddened Combeferre, to which the latter agreed. He then proceeded to tell him what happened earlier during the unfortunate breakfast with his best friend to fill in the silence.

He had no other topics of conversation in his arsenal; save for the ever-burning question that has bombarded him for almost a year already, which was what his real relationship to _Penance,_ the painting in the art gallery, was. He wanted to hear the answer, but he wasn’t comfortable with asking. R was still so _inscrutable_ to him. It unnerved Enjolras because he was usually good at reading and _understanding_ people.

So he settled on telling R of how his day went. He had told him of what he ate, why Combeferre looked like he just emerged from hell week when it wasn’t even midterms yet.   He shared that he had two best friends, both with names starting with the letter C, which R laughed at for no apparent reason – asides from the fact that it was _R_ , _he had to laugh at that_ – and how they got into their fight. Somehow, Enjolras felt like it was safe to say these things.

Enjolras told him what Courfeyrac said to Combeferre just _once_ and he understood immediately.

“I don’t suggest you play matchmaker though,” he continued. “I think you should let them figure it on their own.

“Why shouldn’t I just tell Combeferre? Why not act on it when I can?”

“Because there’s such a thing as timing, and it’s different when you realize it on your own, as opposed to being told. For these kinds of things anyway.”

When Grantaire had uttered those words Enjolras suddenly found himself realizing that even if he disliked R’s opinions and personal outlooks on his own beliefs and philosophies (he hasn’t forgotten their argument at the Musain), and despite how infuriating his personality was, he liked him as a person.

“Look,” the artist started, “I know you think that it’s your business because it’s your two best friends, yadda yadda, and I get that. But this—“ he gestured around to nothing in particular, “—this is different. It’s not your relationship with them. It’s their relationship with each other.” 

Enjolras had never considered the probability that Combeferre and Courfeyrac were in love with each other, maybe because he already _knew,_ deep within him.

Enjolras thought about how Grantaire could possibly know this, without even knowing the two people in any sort of way personally. He thought about how Grantaire was wise in a whole different kind of way he wasn’t used to, and that was okay. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe, R being cynical wasn’t something that he was born with. R knowing things about _longing_ and being distrustful of the world around him was something that was taught to him along the way.

“What?” R asked. Enjolras realized that he was just staring.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking, I mean I got curious, but it’s not appropriate cocoa-and-bagels conversation.”

R chuckled. “You sound like Ep. No, I actually agree with you,” he crushed the end of his cigarette against the concrete outside of the window sill. “Our conversations never seem like they’re appropriate. That’s what I like about them, unfortunately. I feel--”

He stopped abruptly and scoffed to himself, like he was dismayed about what he just thought.

“What?”

“I don’t know – comfortable talking about these sorts of things with you.”

Enjolras gaped at him.

R laughed. “Shame that it looks so one-sided, though. You know, I noticed something. Unrequited love is problematic. No one’s really required to love you back.”

“No,” Enjolras managed to let out after a few awkward seconds. “No one is.”

“I don’t know what else they should call it, though. Jehan might know. She’s good with naming things. Did you know that we once got pet goldfish? Four of them. She named them after the four Brontë siblings.”

“I only know three Brontë's.”

“They had a brother. I know what you’re thinking... was he as good of an author as his sisters? Yes, he was an author, but no, sadly no... He was not as good. Branwell, was his name. God, siblings. What a bother right? Like having a mother and a father wasn’t enough. You know, this is why I hated King Lear. I hate family--”

“Why?” Enjolras suddenly asked, a lot louder than what he intended. Then he added “I think those are terrible names. They’re quite ordinary.”

 “Branwell wasn’t, but yeah. Imagine naming your pet ‘Anne’, jesus. What were we thinking? Well, I guess we were just hoping that someone would get the reference. Also, in answer to your question, I liked Hamlet better, but hey, who doesn’t like Hamlet? You know that quote that goes like ‘we are Hamlet’? Not in the play, of course. Someone said that, I can’t remember who. Sometimes I feel that way towards Jason Todd, you know? Like at some point in our lives we all felt like Jason Todd.”

Enjolras suddenly realized that R had a tendency to ramble. When he didn’t reply, R went on talking.

“Shit,” he was laughing. “You must not know what I’m talking about-“

“I meant, why do you hate family?”

R looked confused. “So you know who Jason Todd is?”

“No...”

“Shame. Anyway, yeah, I never really thought about it much-“ Enjolras could tell that it was a lie. “—but family, pfft. Who needs them? They unleash you unto this world without your say so, they fuck you up badly, sometimes they’re even the ones who do the worst damage because your expectations are so high when it comes to them, and then it’s always ‘ought’. We _ought_ to stick with them because society says so. Family is a social construct.”

Enjolras suddenly felt very angry. “I don’t even know how to reply to what you just said.”

R smiled at him amusingly. Their moment was over, once again. “Let me guess, Mama’s boy?”

“ _No._ I didn’t feel like I belonged with my family either – we never really saw eye to eye – but I did with my—“

Enjolras stopped talking. This was delving into deeper territory, an unchartered part of him that he even _he_ didn’t indulge in too much.

“You need _family_ , R,” he settled on saying. “Because you need to be accepted. You’re always going to look for that feeling of belonging. The family you have first – biologically – may not always be the one you end up loving. You can go ahead and live your life and find the one you can call your own, you know.”

R was staring at him with a smile, not mocking or amusing, a simple smile. Barely there, but Enjolras could see it.

“Boy, I love having these little talks,” he said.

The coffee had surely gone cold, and when Enjolras looked at the clock, he was surprised at the amount of time that had already passed. He turned back to R and asked, “How are we like Jason Todd?”

Grantaire lowered his eyes. “At some point in our lives we’ve all probably been abandoned.”

 

#

 

When Enjolras said that he needed to do his laundry and that Grantaire could go if he had better places to be, he thought that R would take it as a cue to bolt out the door and leave him to his own fairly mentally-exhausting morning. Grantaire, in fact, did not. He stayed and offered to help with Enjolras’ laundry. At first the blonde refused. He was a guest – and to an extent, he guessed – a friend. (Right?) but then he relented with R’s nagging and threats that he would blast Justin Bieber non-stop on his phone and hold it against Enjolras’ head if he didn’t let him help.

So that was how Enjolras spent his Saturday morning with R: bagels, hot cocoa, talking, and laundry. Just a week ago, he’d been this mysterious person he had known nothing about, but now he realized that R was talkative, a devil’s advocate, hated capitalism and loved Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy with a passion. Enjolras, on the other hand, loathed Douglas Adams’ humour.

“How can you even _hate_ him, jesus fucking-“ Grantaire said as he grabbed a handful of clothes.

With a horror, Enjolras realized that he had not taken his dirty underwear from the assortment of dirty clothing. They were segregating them when he glanced at R and saw that he was holding one of Enjolras’ boxer briefs. He coughed and turned crimson red.

“I’ll be taking that,” he said. Grantaire shrugged, seemingly unaffected by the occurrence. He continued with his rant.

“I love how he bashes the stupidity of the human race using science fiction,” he said.

“Well, I might give it a chance since you recommended it. I’m not that big on fiction, though.”

R stared at him with an open mouth. “Oh come on,” he whined.

“I just thought that reading made-up stories were a waste of time.”

“Let me guess, The Communist Manifesto was your favourite book growing up, right?”

Enjolras frowned as he tossed the white clothes into the washing machine. “It’s a great book.”

R scoffed and made a dismissive gesture. “Man, you need to spice up your life. What do you even do for fun?”

“Well...”

“Well?”

Enjolras blinked. “I don’t think it’s your brand of fun, and I don’t want to be mocked by what I enjoy.”

“Which is?” Grantaire actively pursued.

“Well,  I love organizing events for Les Amis. Conferences, meetings. Rallies.” Enjolras immediately remembered that there was an upcoming rally sometime next month. They were going to be very busy.

“That sounds very fun,” Grantaire replied sarcastically.

The doorbell rang. “Whoever could that be?” he asked.

“Probably Combeferre.”

He suddenly started fidgeting. “Uh,” he let out nervously.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t be here...?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes at him. “Don’t worry. Ferre’s harmless.”

“Not sure about me...” He mumbled.

Enjolras went to fetch Combeferre from the front door as Grantaire moved around the small room where Enjolras did laundry. When he returned, Combeferre was with him.

“Combeferre, this is Grantaire. Grantaire, Combeferre,” he explained.

Grantaire suddenly wanted to fold in half into himself, but he managed to offer his hand in greeting. “Hi, nice to meet you,” he said with an uncomfortable smile.

“Likewise,” Combeferre replied. “I like your sweater.”

“Oh,” He suddenly remembered that he was wearing a stupid sweater with a Star Wars reference on it. “Thanks! You’re a fan?”

Combeferre smiled at him. And that was how they spent the entire whole afternoon talking about the Star Wars franchise.

“If you’d like to stay for dinner—“ Enjolras started as Grantaire looked at his phone. There were texts from Eponine asking him if he’d done the deed, and Jehan if he’d given the book. He noticed the time.

“No! I think I’ll go ahead now.” Grantaire said. He turned back to Combeferre. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too, Grantaire.”

“Please. Call me R.”

Enjolras walked him to the door. “Thanks for coming over,” he said. He was still inside the apartment, half-hidden by the door while Grantaire was outside. For a brief moment he realized that Enjolras was taller than him, and his chest ached.

“Sorry for eating all your pasta. And the bagels. And the hot cocoa. And for stealing your time with Combeferre.”

“Nonsense. You should come over again some other time.”

Grantaire bit his lip. “Maybe.”

Enjolras’ features turned soft. “Will you go to Les Amis’ meeting next week? Ep knows where it’s held.”

“I’ll try.”

Enjolras beamed. “I remember you saying that you’d go only if you believed in the things we wanted to accomplish. Does this mean I changed your mind?”

“Not really.”

He frowned. “So you still don’t believe in anything, huh?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I believe in you,” he said as he turned to go down the stairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't noticed, Grantaire has an obsession with Robins. By Robins, I mean Batman's sidekick. Jason Todd/Red Hood was the second Robin, who also happens to be my favourite. You can read his history here (don't worry, it's short) http://fuckyeahjasontodd.tumblr.com/post/1193404932/the-drunken-history-of-jason-todd if you wanna make sense of what Grantaire is talking about.


End file.
